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His works are, "Outre Mer;" "Hyperion," a romance; "Voices of the Night;" "Ballads and other Poems;" "The Spanish Student," a play; "Kavanagh," play, The Golden Legend;" "Miles Standish ;" "Tales of a Wayside Inn," &c]

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He is dead, the beautiful youth,

The heart of honour, the tongue of truth,—

He, the life and light of us all,

Whose voice was blithe as a bugle call.

Whom all eyes followed with one consent,

The cheer of whose laugh, and whose pleasant word,
Hushed all murmurs of discontent.

Only last night as we rode along,
Down the dark of the mountain gap,
To visit the picket-guard at the ford,
Little dreaming of any mishap,

He was humming the words of some old song:
"Two red roses he had on his cap,

And another he bore at the point of his sword."

Sudden and swift a whistling ball

Came out of a wood, and the voice was still,
Something I heard in the darkness fall,
And for a moment
chill;
my blood grew
I spake in a whisper, as he who speaks
In a room where some one is lying dead;
But he made no answer to what I said.

We lifted him up on his saddle again,

And through the mire, and the mist, and the rain,
Carried him back to the silent camp,

And laid him as if asleep on his bed;

And I saw by the light of the surgeon's lamp

Two white roses upon his cheeks,

And one just over his heart blood red!

And I saw in a vision how far and fleet
That fatal bullet went speeding forth,
Till it reached a town in the distant North,
Till it reached a house in a sunny street,
Till it reached a heart that ceased to beat
Without a murmur, without a cry;
And a bell was tolled in that far-off town,
For one who had passed from cross to crown,—
And the neighbours wondered that she should die.

The Three Sons.

175

25. THE THREE SONS.

REV. J. MOULTRIE.

The Rev. John Moultrie is the rector of Rugby, author of "My Brother's Grave," and other poems (1827), "Lays of the English Church, &c." (1843), and editor of an edition of Gray's poetical works. He was born about 1804.]

I HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five years old,
With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould,
They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears,

That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond his childish years.
I cannot say how this may be, I know his face is fair;
And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and serious air:
I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he loveth me,
But loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency:

But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his mind,

The food for grave inquiring speech, he everywhere doth find.
Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk;
He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk,
Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball,
But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics all.
His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplexed

With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the next.

He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray,
And strange, and sweet, and solemn, then, are the words which he

will say.

Oh! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me,
A holier and a wiser man, I trust that he will be !

And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow,
I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.

I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three;

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little features be,
How silvery sweet those tones of his, when he prattles on my knee:
I do not think his light blue eye is, like his brother's, keen;
Nor his brow so full of childish thought, as his hath ever been;
But his little heart's a fountain pure, of kind and tender feeling,
And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths of love revealing.
When he walks with me, the country folk, who pass us in the street,
Will speak their joy, and bless my boy, who looks so mild and sweet,
A playfellow is he to all, and yet with cheerful tone,
He'll sing his little song of love, when left to sport alone.
His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden home and hearth,
To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all our mirth.
Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his heart may prove
As sweet a home for heavenly grace, as now for earthly love!

And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes must dim,
God comfort us for all the love which we shall lose in him!

I have a son, a third sweet son! his age I cannot tell,

For they reckon not by years and months where he is gone to dwell.

To us for fourteen anxious months, his infant smiles were given,
And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to live in heaven.
I cannot tell what form he has, what looks he weareth now,
Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining seraph brow,
The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss which he doth feel,
Are numbered with the secret things which God will not reveal;
But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is now at rest,
Where other blessed infants be, on their Saviour's loving breast.
I know his spirit feels no more this weary load of flesh;
But his sleep is blessed with endless dreams of joy for ever fresh.

I know the angels fold him close, beneath their glittering wings, And soothe him with a song that breathes of Heaven's divinest things.

I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother dear and I),
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from every eye.
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can never cease;
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is certain peace.

It

may be that the tempter's wiles their souls from bliss may sever, But if our own poor faith fail not, he must be ours for ever. When we think of what our darling is, and what we still must be; When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and this world's misery; When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel this grief and pain, Oh! we'd rather lose our other two, than have him here again.

26.-THE WONDERS OF THE LANE.

EBENEZER ELLIOTT.

[Mr. Elliott worked in the iron trade, at Sheffield, for many years. He was unsuccessful at first, but persevered and succeeded. He was born at Masborough, near Rotherham, 1781, and died 1849.]

STRONG climber of the mountain side,
Though thou the vale disdain,

Yet walk with me where hawthorns hide
The wonders of the lane.

High o'er the rushy springs of Don

The stormy gloom is roll'd;

The moorland hath not yet put on
His purple, green, and gold.

But here the titling spreads his wing,
Where dewy daisies gleam;

And here the sun flower of the spring
Burns bright in morning's beam.

The Wonders of the Lane.

To mountain winds the famish'd fox
Complains that Sol is slow,

O'er headlong steeps and gushing rocks
His royal robe to throw.

But here the Lizard seeks the sun,
Here coils in light the snake;
And here the fire-tuft* hath begun
Its beauteous nest to make.

Oh, then, while hums the earliest bee
Where verdure fires the plain,
Walk thou with me, and stoop to see
The glories of the lane!

For, oh, I love these banks of rock,
This roof of sky and tree,

These tufts, where sleeps the gloaming clock,
And wakes the earliest bee!

As spirits from eternal day

Look down on earth secure ;
Gaze thou, and wonder, and survey

A world in miniature;

A world not scorn'd by Him who made
Even weakness by his might;

But solemn in his depth of shade,
And splendid in his light.
Light! not alone on clouds afar
O'er storm lov'd mountains spread,
Or widely teaching sun and star,
Thy glorious thoughts are read;
Oh no! thou art a wondrous book,
To sky, and sea, and land—
A page on which the angels look,
Which insects understand!
And here, oh, Light! minutely fair,
Divinely plain and clear,
Like splinters of a crystal hair,
Thy bright small hand is here.
Yon drop-fed lake, six inches wide,
Is Huron, girt with wood;

This driplet feeds Missouri's tide-
And that, Niagara's flood.

What tidings from the Andes brings

Yon line of liquid light,

That down from heav'n in madness flings
The blind foam of its might ?

Do I not hear his thunder roll-
The roar that ne'er is still ?

'Tis mute as death!-but in my soul
It roars, and ever will.

* The Golden-crested Wren.

N

177

What forests tall of tiniest moss
Clothe every little stone!

What pigmy oaks their foliage toss
O'er pigmy valleys lone!

With shade o'er shade, from ledge to ledge,
Ambitious of the sky,

They feather o'er the steepest edge

Of mountains mushroom high.
Oh, God of marvels! who can tell
What myriad living things

On these grey stones unseen may dwell!
What nations, with their kings!
I feel no shock, I hear no groan
While fate perchance o'erwhelms
Empires on this subverted stone-
A hundred ruin'd realms!

Lo! in that dot, some mite, like me,
Impelled by woe or whim,

May crawl, some atom cliffs to see-
A tiny world to him!

Lo! while he pauses, and admires
The work of nature's might,
Spurn'd by my foot, his world expires,
And all to him is night!

Oh, God of terrors! what are we?—
Poor insects, spark'd with thought!
Thy whisper, Lord, a word from thee,
Čould smite us into nought!

But shouldst thou wreck our fatherland,
And mix it with the deep,
Safe in the hollow of thy hand,

Thy little ones would sleep.

66

27.-HOME AGAIN.

WILLIAM SAWYER.

[Mr. Sawyer is well known as a poetical contributor to the leading magazines of the day, including "The Cornhill," "Good Words," "Gentleman's Magazine," Belgravia," and "Temple Bar." He has published several small volumes of verse which exhibit poetical powers of no mean order, including "Ten Miles from Town," which has run through two editions.]

HOME again! Spared the perils of years,
Spared of rough seas and rougher lands,
And I look in your eyes once, once again,
Hear your voices, and grasp your hands!
Not changed the least, least bit in the world!
Not aged a day, as it seems to me!
The same dear faces, the same dear home-
All the same as it used to be!

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